


Gotta Get A Grip

by hopkiins



Category: South Park
Genre: Blood and Gore, Hallucinations, Hotline Miami AU, Insanity, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-19 23:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16544816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopkiins/pseuds/hopkiins
Summary: The impulse has always been there for Craig, but now it's even worse.





	Gotta Get A Grip

**Author's Note:**

> i had recently decided to replay the Hotline Miami series, as i hadn't had much else to do, and decided to make an au based on it. a few things are the same (such as dialogue for richard, don juan, and rasmus), but the good portion of what happens is different than the game
> 
> now, depending on whether or not i am going to be incorporating the second game into this story, it may either be long or short
> 
> this is not correlated to any moment of history, although it is implied that the story takes place during the cold war in the late 1980's

The unfamiliar building leered over him, as if watching his every step, judging him. His green eyes scanned over it once more before the anxiety bubbled up inside of him, and he slowly pushed his way past the door and into the dark room.

Inside, there were three people lounging in chairs. A woman in a zebra mask, a man in a rooster mask, and another man in an owl mask. They all turned their heads to him as soon as he stepped through the doorway, and the metal door slammed shut behind him.

“And who do we have here? Oh, you don’t know who you are..?” Zebra-mask had said to him. “Maybe we should leave it that way?” The blue light that illuminated her only added to her seemingly worried character.

“But I know who you are,” Chicken-mask said, his voice ominous. “Look at my face. We’ve met before, haven’t we?” Craig was unsure how to feel about him, what with the yellow light that shone down on him and the way he said everything.

“I don’t know you! Why are you here?” The owl-masked man had asked him, hostility obvious in his voice. The red light surrounding him only made him seem even more unfriendly and dangerous. “You’re no guest of mine!”

“Do you really want me to reveal who you are?” The woman in the horse mask asked, but Craig didn’t understand what she was speaking of. He knew exactly who he was. “Knowing oneself means acknowledging one’s actions.” She had to pause for a second, her hand gripping the side of her chair in worry. “As of lately, you’ve done some terrible things…”

From what he can remember, he’d never done anything terrible. Maybe he clocked Kenny McCormick for being a douche quite a handful of times, but that wasn’t entirely too awful to do to somebody. As he opened his mouth to argue, the yellow-lit man began to speak.

“You don’t remember me?” He asked, and of course, Craig didn’t. He never met this person before, not once. “I’ll give you a clue...”

“Does April the 3rd mean anything to you?” He asked after a brief pause, the murmuring of the other two ringing out behind him as they all spoke together.

“I believe that was the day of our first encounter,” he continued as the others became silent, watching Craig through the slits in the eyes. The date was familiar. The noirette was certain something had happened that day, and something very important. His head throbbed as a memory rushed out at him.

“You look like you might be remembering something…” The man said with a chuckle.

And then it all went black.

 

 **APRIL 3RD, 1989.**  
**MIAMI, FLORIDA.**

There are few things in the world that you could ever get away with if you played the right cards. The car that was placed outside of the apartment complex was one of those things. A couple of years back, the original owner had been arrested for mass murder at a nearby arcade. He’d been shot dead on the spot, from what the police have gathered. Nobody was sure why he did it. In fact, earlier that day, he had received a completely normal voicemail from a friend of his named Tam, who said she needed help with managing the amount of people who were located in the building at the time. Half of them had been murdered, and the guy was found with a bullet-shaped hole in his skull.

Craig thinks it’s kinda cool how nobody knows what actually happened. He also thinks it’s cool that the beat-up car was just given to him without explanation. It was technically stolen, but he didn’t really care that much about it. It was a common thing that happened in the area.

He’s currently in his kitchen, making himself breakfast. It’s 8:03 AM and the sun has just started to peek in through the windows of his apartment. The light illuminates the combined kitchen and dining room, reflecting off of the spicket and the refrigerator’s door handles. It’s quiet, save for the few birds who are happily chirping on a tree branch just outside of the window he’s staring out of; not really looking so much as being lost in thought.

It’s then that he notices the glowing red dot on his phone. Someone during the night must have contacted him, but he wouldn’t have any idea as to why.

Setting the milk carton down, Craig presses the voicemail button.

“You have one new message!” The pre-recorded voice says, then ends with a beep.

“Hi, this is Tim at the bakery. The cookies that you ordered should be delivered by now…” The voice of a kind-sounding man says. “A list of ingredients are included… make sure that you read them carefully!” Click.

Craig may be an idiot, but he knows for a fact that he never ordered any cookies.

He walks to his front door and opens it, seeing the familiar green carpeting that’s as filthy as when he first moved in. Maybe even worse now. And that’s when he notices the brown papering of the package, the company’s logo placed as a sticker to hold it all together. He checks to make sure nobody’s watching him before he takes it into his apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

The package isn’t heavy at all, which strikes concern into him. Cookies definitely weigh something, and whatever was in here was definitely not a box of Tagalongs. He begins to peel away the wrapping, revealing a slip of paper. As he takes it out, he takes notice of the ripped and crumpled parts, then does his best to read the sloppy handwriting.

“The target is a briefcase,” it says, “Discretion is of essence.”

“What,” is all Craig murmurs, checking the packaging again. Surely this was sent to the wrong person. But there they were, both his name and address written neatly on the front. He looks back to the note.

“Leave target at point E-32, inside the dumpster. Failure is not an option. We’ll be watching you.” His blood runs cold at that. This has to be an elaborate joke, probably from one of his buddies from college. They were the only ones who would actually know all of this, after all.

He goes to crumple up the paper and throw it out, when something else catches his eye. In the packaging, something rubbery is poking out. He sets down the paper and picks up the package again, tearing back more of the paper and finding a rooster mask. He scoffs and sets it back down on the table.

“Ha ha, guys. Very funny,” he mutters to himself, rolling his eyes. Ignoring what he had just received, he returns to the counter and pours some milk into his bowl of cereal. Still, he wonders if he should actually go along with whatever his friends may be planning for him. Or if he should just go right back to sleep after he finishes eating breakfast. The second option sounds much better than the first does, so he decides to do just that as he takes a seat down at the kitchen table.

It’s a little lonely here, now that he thinks about it. His previous boyfriend had dumped him a few years ago, but Craig hadn’t been able to recover after it. He managed to lose his job down at the pharmacy and had to pick up a second one in order to keep himself fed and warm. He hated where he was now. There are a lot of creeps who show up at the gas station, mostly people who he never sees again once they get their gas filled and then continue onward.

He often considers putting himself back out there, but he’s not sure if he could handle it. After all, the past ten years have been fairly traumatic for him. Being a soldier stationed in Hawaii had its perks, but he hated having to constantly go out on suicide missions to claim the smallest Russian enemy bases for the United States. It was pointless, but the general always said it helped the cause.

But that final mission…

His head pounded everytime he thought about it.

Craig lets out a grunt and picks up his spoon, then puts it back down. He’s not hungry anymore, so there’s no need for this. He stands and picks the bowl up, turning himself around and dumping the contents down the sink. What a fucking waste, he thinks, and it’s all thanks to that Goddamned package.

The mail from yesterday is sitting on the counter, and it’s definitely too early for him to go out and have to deal with whatever his friends are planning. The familiar red circle with three lines through it catches his eye. The pink colouring of the paper is different, and for a moment he believes that he couldn’t make this month’s rent. He examines it.

“Thank you for subscribing to our newsletter!” It reads, “We appreciate your interest in our cause. America is a tune. It must be sung together. -50 Blessings.” Oh.

It’s a possibility that maybe the ones who sent him the voicemail and the package weren’t his friends, and maybe instead it was for whatever this “50 Blessings” thing was. In all honesty, he was just tired of seeing the Russian mafia around the neighbourhood. They hadn’t done anything horrible yet, but Craig had the feeling that they were planning something, and so he signed himself up for the project. He hadn’t really expected any of, well, this.

He tugs on a jacket, grabs his car keys, and exits his apartment.

When he exits the building, he immediately spots his beat-up 1981 Delorean, the one that a friend of his stole for him. It was registered and still able to be used, thankfully. The paint had been reapplied the same day he got it, to make it more appealing to society’s standards. Craig loves this car, even if it may be linked to a murderer. And that’s the exact reason why he adores it so much. The mystery surrounding the man who snapped for apparently no reason at all piqued his interest quite a bit. He’s done research about the topic for countless hours, and has spoken to a few witnesses when he had the chance. The young lady who lived upstairs had supposedly seen the entire thing, but she can’t seem to recall what the man had looked like.

Craig eventually arrives at the metro station, the closest point he can get to the location given to him. He steps out of the car and pulls on his mask, feeling kind of stupid for listening to someone who may or may not be pulling a prank on him. He’s expecting the former.

The mask is what may be part of the discretion bit. It easily conceals his identity, making him a lot harder to recognize.

Walking up the stairs in order to reach the door, Craig pauses a moment to take a deep breath before opening the door-

It swings open, knocking the man in white attire out cold in seconds. “Oh- oh shit,” he says, usually monotone voice spiking up in sincere worry. Blood leaked out of his head far too quickly and in such a large amount that he had injured the man very severely. But taking another look at his coat, Craig wasn’t sure if he even wanted to help the guy out. “Fuck,” he said to nobody, or maybe to himself. Either way, he messed with a member of the Russian mafia. And you never wanted to mess with them.

In the off chance that the man would get up, Craig quickly decided to take the baseball bat. It was also good to carry something with him, since there would probably be more members around somewhere.

That’s when he hears the sound of a sink filter out from the bathroom.

Holding the bat up in order to swing in the case of an attack, Craig quietly sneaks towards the door, pushing it open just the slightest bit in order to peer in. Another guy wearing the exact same apparel as the first is standing there, washing his hands. The black gun in his belt is spottable enough for him to grip the bat tighter.

His heart momentarily stops beating as the door’s hinges squeak, and the mafia man stills for a moment.

“Kir? That you?” He asks, Russian accent heavily coating his gruff voice. Craig doesn’t respond, so the man addresses again, “Kir?” He turns around to face the door and spots Craig, hand immediately going to his gun. But then he pauses. “Are you trying to mess with me?” He asks, walking towards him in slow, calculated steps. The mask Craig is wearing is pulled off immediately, and he steps back in alarm, hand going back down to grip the handle of the gun.

“You’re not supposed to be here, ребенок,” he growls, starting to pull the firearm from its holster. Feeling a sudden wave of adrenaline, Craig surged forward and effectively slammed the bat into the other man’s face, hearing the cracking of bone as soon as it collided. In the moment, he couldn’t think clearly and bashed his face in, watching as blood spurted up into the air with each hit.

Eventually he had managed to come to his senses, falling back and dropping the now bloodied bludgeon beside him. His breathing came out sporadically as he watched blood and mush leak from the torn skin, pooling around him on the tiled floor.

Something about doing that, though… it felt reminiscent. It was like those years he had spent on a military base in Hawaii with a few of his friends. He sometimes missed them and wondered how they were doing, but when realizing what happened back there...

Craig pushed himself up from the ground, picking the bat up. It was their fucking fault that it had happened. He wiped the splatters of red from his face and exited the bathroom, trudging up the stairs. If it was a suitcase that they needed, it was a suitcase that they would get.

Things were kind of like that back in Hawaii. Raid the Russian bases, take them for the U.S., report back to the chief. That’s what he was doing now, except instead of a gun, he had a bat, and instead of claiming a base, he was getting a briefcase. But this was a solo mission. Everyone would be after him, and he was the only one to defend himself.

As he neared the top of the stairs, he could hear bubbly laughter from around the corner. The 50 Blessings sign had been spray-painted onto the wall beside him, so there was no doubt that he was in the right place. He edged himself along the bricks, cautiously peeking around the wall to check where the other men were.

“Мы на самом деле это делаем?” The man seated on the floor said, breathing out the smoke he had just inhaled from his cigarette.

“Да,” the one in the chair responded.

As Craig goes to shift his weight, the stair creaks. He watches the men stiffen before a third comes into view.

“ждать,” he says to the other two, picking up a knife from the table and beginning to walk in Craig’s direction.

He presses his back to the wall, hearing the footsteps come closer and closer until they stop just on the other side. He only needs to hear a breath before he slams the bat into the man’s head, successfully earning him a deafening crack and a stream of blood. More footsteps approach, and he grabs the knife that fell at his feet, slashing the throat of the first man to decide to run around the corner. Blood sprays across his mask and the smell of iron is starting to become unbearable. The next man ends up with a gash in his chest, and his breathing comes out rapidly. Craig decides to show some sort of mercy and pierces his heart.

The overload he’s having is dangerous for him. His time in the military rushes through his head, the final blow crashing his mind completely as he turns around the bend with his weapons, eyes settling on the 9mm that’s been splashed in red. He drops the knife in favor of the pistol, then continues towards the door at the end of the room.

He steps through, quickly taking notice of the two men who are standing there, supposedly guarding a man in a cloak. He’s the one. The guards are able to notice him fast, rushing at him with bats of their own. Craig shoots one dead, being oddly satisfied with the way the blood spurts out onto the wall and puddles around him as he falls to the ground. He hits the other to the ground, staring down at him as he slams his boot into his face.

The cloaked man is unnervingly calm, as if he were waiting for this to happen. He doesn’t have a weapon on him, or perhaps he’s waiting for something. The bullet rips through his head with ease.

He drops the pistol and bat, grabbing the handle of the briefcase instead.

Target acquired.

The ground starts to shake and he hears the familiar sound of the train pulling into dock. He quickly makes his way downstairs, finding two more members of the mafia exiting through the doors of the metro. Their laughter echoes off the walls as they speak their native tongue, but the noise quickly dies down once they see the bodies of Craig’s earlier victims. Their eyes settle on Craig, whose eyes are boring into their flesh. They mutter to each other before backing up. Craig follows them, but keeps walking once they’ve stopped. His body is on autopilot, just like how it was when he was in the military. He was given orders to do something, and therefore must complete the task.

They’re dead before they even realize what’s happening.

The smell of iron is starting to become unfathomable now, but Craig still has to complete his job. He exits the station, entering his car. The spot where he needs to be is only a little up the road, but he can’t risk being caught. After all, he practically committed mass murder. He takes the mask off and drives.

He reaches point B; it’s an alleyway behind an apartment complex. A canfire is lit in the corner, he notices, and pulls the mask back on. Discretion is of essence.

He makes his way around the bends and walls, eventually finding the dumpster where he is to leave the target. He discards of it and begins to leave, but pauses as he hears an unfamiliar voice.

“Who’s there?” Craig assumes that this is the person who had lit the fire. “I can hear you! I know you’re there!”

There’s hostility in his voice, and confrontation means that someone is going to get hurt or end up dead. And it’s not going to be Craig.

He sneaks along the wall of the building, careful not to make any noise or give away his location. The corner is just ahead and he can see the man start to turn the corner. He waits a moment too late, feeling a blunt object collide with his ribs. Anger bubbles up inside him and, ignoring the pain, he shoves the other man up against the wall, repeatedly slamming his fist into his head. He backs away, watching as the guy slides to the ground. He’s still breathing.

Craig picks up the bat seconds later, landing one last blow to his skull, watching the blood leak out from under his brown beanie and onto the ragged green coat he’s wearing.

Mission complete.

He carries the bat with him to his car, pulling his mask off. But he stills for a moment, and then doubles over, coating the cement and part of the brick wall in vomit. He’s shaking, holding himself up on his hands and knees as he realizes what he’s done. He hadn’t meant to go so far, hadn’t meant to kill anyone- but all it took was that first hit. That first fucking swing of the bat to trigger something in the back of his mind.

He wipes his mouth on his arm, feeling the tears start to well up in his eyes. He can’t do this, not right now. He gathers his things and hops into his car, driving off towards the convenience store.

 

. . .

 

The door chimes once he walks through the door. He had managed to clean himself up with spit and tissues that he found in the glove compartment, but he had to leave his jacket in the car. He’ll clean it when he gets home.

The face at the counter is extremely recognizable.

“Kenny?” He dares ask, hoping that he’s got the right guy.

The blond takes a glance over, and is shocked to find none other than Craig fucking Tucker. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s me.” And then he gets a large, dopey grin on his face.

“Dude, it’s been way too long. What’s up, man?” He asks, leaning over the counter and motioning for Craig to come closer. “I haven’t seen you in forever!”

Kenny looks about the same as he did when Craig last saw him, save for the beard, ear piercings, and longer hair.

“Yeah,” Craig agrees, “I’ve been. Around.” Kenny was one of the guys he had met back in Hawaii. “College, mostly.”

“That’s cool. How’s Tweek?”

It’s the wrong question to ask. He and Tweek broke up years ago. He gets a funny look on his face.

“Oh. Wait, shit, I didn’t mean-” Kenny goes to say, pauses, then takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever,” Craig responds, crossing his arms. His mind is starting to go fuzzy. He wants to go home, to just go to bed and forget what happened today. The door slams open from behind Kenny.

“Hey, Ken, we ran out of paper towels and-” Brown eyes focus on green, mouth falling slack. “Craig?”

Now, Craig himself was shocked, as well. He hadn’t seen Clyde since he left with the army, and he hadn’t spoken to him since then, either. That was eleven years ago. He will admit that he looks nice, hair a little shaggy, skin tanned and freckled, stubble starting to grow in.

“That’s him alright,” Kenny says, wrapping an arm around Clyde when he stands beside him. Now this is curious.

“Are you two..?” Craig motions vaguely to them.

“Yup,” Kenny says, “About seven months now.” He squeezes Clyde’s shoulder, hugging him closer to his body.

“Oh,” is all Craig says. He’s not sure how to feel about this. “Well, I’m in a hurry, so…” He takes a pack of gum off of the rack at the bottom of the counter. “I need a pack, too. Brand doesn’t matter, they’re all the same.” Kenny places down a pack of Camel in front of Craig, who hands him his card. Kenny hands it back moments later and Craig gathers his things.

As he’s going to leave, Clyde stops him. “Hey, man. Is your number still the same?” He asks, and Craig nods. “We should catch up sometime. Uh.” He takes a glance over his shoulder, watching Kenny head off into the bathroom behind the counter.

“I really missed you, man. You haven’t contacted me in, like, years. Take care, yeah?” He continues, taking his hand off of Craig’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Craig responds with, and Clyde smiles. “See ya.”

The door chimes again as he leaves. He takes one of the cancer sticks from its box, lighting it with his favourite rose-coloured lighter. As the smoke disappears into the air, he can’t help but think:

_What the hell have I gotten myself into?_

 

**Author's Note:**

> "ребенок" is an informal Russian word that means "kid."  
> "Мы на самом деле это делаем" roughly translates to "do we actually do this?"  
> "Да" means "yes."  
> "ждать" means "wait."
> 
>  
> 
> [kahlvin-cycle.tumblr.com](https://kahlvin-cycle.tumblr.com/)


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